


this is how galaxies collide

by captaintiny



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, lots of mutual pining, so much mutual pining, the chantry is bad Actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaintiny/pseuds/captaintiny
Summary: Alistair has grown up without touch. Touch is bad, touch is sinful, touch only leads to corruption. Then, at Ostagar, Duncan returns from Orzammar with a new recruit; a dwarf covered in darkspawn blood with silver hair and a silver tongue to match. As they travel Ferelden together, he finds himself re-evaluating everything he knows about bodily contact.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Female Aeducan/Alistair (Dragon Age)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	this is how galaxies collide

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is my first fanfiction in three years. It's been a very weird roller coaster of time. Cliff notes version; I got sick, got sicker, recovered slightly, got diagnosed with an auto-immune disease, moved out of my parents' house and gradually got my shit together. I replayed Origins when I moved and now I'm back on my bullshit. Some of this will follow in-game footage and dialogue, but most will be extrapolated or interim scenes. Tags and characters will be updated with new chapters.

_Wind howls round the cold, empty halls of the chantry; a haunting, melancholy rendition of the hymns sung that morning. Outside the rattling window, the storm rages. A crack of lightning throws the room into sharp relief, and Alistair curls up a little tighter under his blanket, fists clenched with fear. There are no warm bodies to keep him safe here, no mabari paws to cling to. No gentle whines or rough tongues licking his cheek as he cries. His chest aches with loneliness._

_A rap on the door interrupts his thoughts and he sits bolt upright, wiping the tears from his face with the heel of his hand._

_“Up, child. Your presence is required.”_

_Alistair pulls on a robe over his nightclothes and scurries to the door. One does not refuse the voice of the revered Mother._

Even if it is past bedtime, _he thinks._

_She barely gives him a second glance before walking off down the corridor. Alistair follows._

_A crack of thunder sounds almost directly overhead, loud enough to make Alistair’s ears ring. He jumps, grabbing for the closest source of comfort he can: the revered mother’s hand._

_Before the thunder roll has even petered out, she snatches her hand away from him and turns her eyes on him, full of cold disapproval. He cowers under her glare._

_“You do_ not _touch a woman,” she spits._

_Before Alistair can even open his mouth to reply, she marches off. He bows his head and follows, fresh tears forming in his eyes while shame burns his cheeks._

_Touch is sinful. He must face his fear of the storm alone._

* * *

Alistair huffed as he stalked across camp to complete his task. Of all the people to play messenger boy to the mages, why did the revered mother pick the ex-templar?

 _That’s_ precisely _why she picked you,_ he thought to himself. _It’s an insult and you know it._

He was going to refuse, but Duncan had been hovering nearby, watching, and Alistair knew if he had, Duncan would have stepped in and made him take it anyway.

Typical of his mentor, always pushing him to be the better person. 

He _wanted_ to just conveniently ‘not find the mage’, apologise profusely to the revered mother and get on with his day. But he’d never been a good liar and Duncan’s disappointed sigh was more than he could cope with, so he slumped off in the direction of the old temple, kicking at loose stones and muttering under his breath. If his armour had pockets, his hands would definitely be inside them. 

It didn’t take long for him to find the mage in question; he was stood alone in the centre of the plinth, running through simple combat sequences, moves flowing one into the other as though he was meditating instead of letting off powerful blasts of fire at the crumbling pillar in front of him. He turned, saw Alistair, and sighed heavily, not bothering to hide his disdain. Whether it was at being interrupted or at Alistair specifically, he couldn’t say.

“What is it _now_? Haven’t the grey wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

Alistair bit his tongue. _Remember to be civil. Don’t start a fight. Don’t antagonise him._ He chose his words very carefully and spoke each one as neutrally as possible.

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence.”

The mage scoffed. “What her reverence desires is of no concern to me. I am busy helping the grey wardens – on the King’s orders, I might add!”

Alistair fought the urge to roll his eyes, and just about succeeded. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”

He could feel the mage practically explode with impudent fury. “Tell her I will _not_ be harassed in this manner!”

 _I’m not a fucking messenger pigeon,_ he thought. _Sometimes mages can be so fucking stubborn._ “Yes, I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit, man,” the mage spit back.

_To hell with civility._

“Aww, and here I thought we were getting along so _well_!” Alistair said, each word dripping with sarcasm. “I was even going to name one of my children after you – the grumpy one.”

The mage looked as though he was about to hit him, and Alistair almost wished he would.

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must.”

It was not lost on Alistair that he just succeeded in annoying the mage into deciding that between him and the revered mother, she was the lesser of two evils, which was pretty impressive going in the time allowed, even for him. He suppressed a victorious grin. 

“Out of my way, _fool._ ”

The mage stalked off, almost bumping into someone on his way, and that’s when Alistair saw her: barefoot, muddy and spattered with darkspawn blood. White hair, dark skin and dark, determined eyes, that looked like they’d seen a lot more of the uglier side of the world than they should have. 

_Beautiful_ , said the loud, very unhelpful voice in the back of his head. He ignored it.

“You know,” his mouth said before his brain could stop it. “one good thing about the blight is how it really brings people together.”

 _Yes, that’s it, Alistair. Take one look at this woman with fire in her eyes who seems like she hasn’t slept in about four days, who is_ absolutely covered in blood _and decide_ she’s _the perfect person to tell a sarcastic joke to. Really stellar work there._

He winced internally, waiting for another outburst like the rapidly disappearing mage, but instead, the stranger just raised a single eyebrow and smiled wryly.

“You are a very strange human.”

_Oh. Well then._

“Yes, I get that a lot.” He paused, doubting himself for a moment. “Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?”

She frowned, then gestured to herself. “I’m… a dwarf? How could I be a mage?”

_Maker, Alistair, you are absolutely killing it today._

What he wanted to do was apologise for being such an idiot. Instead, mouth bypassing his brain again, he shrugged and said “I don’t know. Sometimes they creep up on you.”

“Like your imagination, it seems,” she replied, dryly and without hesitation. There was a pause of a couple of seconds, where they stared at each other, both completely deadpan, and then, at the same time, they burst out laughing.

“My name is Janna—” said the dwarf, still smiling as she extended a hand for Alistair to shake. He noted the hesitation at the end of her sentence, as though she was about to give a surname but held back at the last moment. “A pleasure to meet you.”

 _Family is probably a painful subject, then._ He thought. _Avoid jokes where possible. Maybe we can bond over our tragic backstories in the future._

“I’m Alistair. Newest grey warden.”

“Oh good, you _are_ who I was looking for.”

_Duncan must have sent her._

He nodded. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be helping you prepare for your joining.”

“Prepare?” She frowned, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyes.

“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to say much.” He gestured back towards camp, and she fell easily into step by his side. “Sworn to secrecy and all. Duncan will explain to you and the others soon.” He paused. “Have you met the other recruits?”

Janna wrinkled her nose a little. “I’ve met Daveth.” The word _unfortunately_ hung unspoken in the air.

“Yes,” Alistair replied apologetically. “The other is Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe.”

Janna nodded. Alistair was a little surprised by how easily he fell into conversation with her.

“So, that mage?”

“Mmmm?”

“Why was he so… uncooperative?”

Alistair barked out a laugh. “How much do you know about mage regulation?”

“Only a little,” Janna admitted. “I read what I could in Orzammar, but being a dwarf, it tends not to be a sought-after topic of study. All I know is that the Chantry controls the Templars and the Templars watch the mages.”

Alistair nodded. “Well, that’s enough to explain this particular situation. I used to be a templar.”

Janna frowned. “You were permitted to leave the order? Even from my limited knowledge, that’s surprising.”

Alistair laughed again. “Yes, well. I was still in training and Duncan had to invoke the right of conscription to get the Revered Mother to let me go. I’ll never forget the look on her face. I thought she was going to have us both arrested.”

_Why am I telling her all this?_

She laughed. “That I would have liked to see.”

“So, the mage was upset, because the revered mother sent me with the message as an insult. He was smart enough to pick up on that, and well, you saw the rest. I would have refused to take it in the first place but–”

“–Duncan.” Janna finished.

“Yes. Apparently, we should all be doing our best to get along and be civil, but no one else seems to have received that particular lecture.” He sat down on an unoccupied bench, under the shade of a large oak, only partly pretending to sulk.

Janna laughed again, joining him. “Sounds just like Orzammar. Though we tend to settle our grievances with one-on-one combat, and I can’t imagine that would go down as well up here.”

Alistair chuckled. “Definitely not, but I can think of several people who would jump at the chance. Including that mage. I’m going to have to watch my back in case he ‘accidentally’ trips and sets me on fire.”

Janna threw her head back in another laugh, and the swaying branches above her caught her eye. She smiled softly, reaching up to tug a leaf free and hold it, studying it in minute detail.

“I didn’t realise quite how beautiful the colour green is.” She said quietly. “The surface is full of surprises.”

A shadow of sadness flitted across her face, and Alistair wondered just how voluntary her departure from Orzammar was. He flailed mentally for a way to distract her.

“Oh, Maker, you should see the southern coast in summer,” he started. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the colours. Greens of the trees, bright oranges and reds of the fruit in the market. For a blissful month or two, the sea is a gorgeous teal, rather than, y’know. Dull Ferelden grey.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Well, when we’ve dealt with the blight, I’ll bat my incredibly charming eyelashes at Duncan, and persuade him to let us all take a trip. We may even convince him to take his armor off.”

For a while, they simply sat and talked, laughing about some of Alistair’s wilder seaside adventures; he was grateful for the diversion – the mood had been so grim and serious recently, and it was a welcome relief to talk about anything that wasn’t darkspawn fighting tactics or the upcoming battle.

A comfortable silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the background chatter of the camp, and the barks of the mabari from the kennels.

“What are mabari like?” Janna asked, evidently prompted by the noise.

“You mean you’ve never–”

Janna gestured to herself again. “We don’t have much use for them, you know, _underground_.”

Alistair flushed. “Right. Yes.” There was a pause, and then, “do you want to go and meet them? I’m sure the Kennel Master would oblige you.”

Janna grinned. “I’d like that.”

“Well it takes us in the right direction, since we’re obliged to go and meet Duncan anyway.”

She almost fell over herself in her excitement, and Alistair bit back another laugh. He’s laughed more times in the past half an hour than in the last six months combined. He followed her to the Kennel Master but pulled up short when he saw the look on the man’s face. He heard a little of the conversation, and pity filled him. He hated what fighting the darkspawn did to the mabari.

His train of thought was cut short when he saw Janna slip inside the gate. Curious, he crossed to the fence and observed.

“Hey there,” she murmured, gently crouching next to the injured creature. He growled warily. “My name is Janna. You probably haven’t seen many dwarves before, have you? I’m here to help you. Will you let me do that?” She paused, giving the dog a moment. When he didn't react, she continued, offering her hand gingerly for him to consider. “I just have to put this muzzle on, so your master over there can make you feel better. Is that ok?”

The mabari whined a little, and sniffed Janna’s outstretched hand, then licked her fingers and rolled onto his side.

“Maker’s breath,” whispered the Kennel Master, talking to himself as much as Alistair. “That poor dog’s been snapping at anyone that so much as looks at him for the past three days.”

“Some people just have a way, I suppose,” replied Alistair, just as stunned.

Janna clambered out the enclosure, looking back miserably at the freshly muzzled mabari. “I hope you can ease his pain a little.”

“Thanks to you, I should have no trouble. But, if you head into the wilds, look for this.” He showed her a rough sketch, and Alistair recognised it as a Wilds flower. “I can make it into a salve that draws out the poison.”

“Got it. I’ll bring back as many as I can carry.”

“Thank you kindly, lass. You’re a good soul.”

“Alistair! Janna!”

Duncan called to them from across the fire, and waved them both over. Jory and Daveth were with him, and Alistair held back a groan. Time to head out into the Wilds.

* * *

Alistair grimaced as he wiped darkspawn blood off his blade and sheathed it, along with his shield.

_Maker, they don’t get any less disgusting._

Janna made quick work of collecting the blood, storing it in the pouch at her waist with practiced ease. She seemed totally unfazed by the massacre, her indifference made all the more apparent by just how shaken Daveth and Jory seemed to be.

Alistair consulted the map, getting their next heading and directing as appropriate, but within two minutes, Janna darted off the path and crouched next to a rotting log.

“What in Andraste’s name is she doing?” Daveth said, rolling his eyes. “It’s like she _wants_ to be ambushed.”

She returned almost as quickly as she left and held out her hand for Alistair.

“This is the flower the kennel master wanted, right?”

Alistair blinked. He had all but forgotten, but yes, in her hand was a small clump of Wilds flowers, red centres bright against the pure white petals.

“That’s the ones.”

She smiled and stowed them away, before falling into step beside him. Her alertness did not escape his notice; one hand always on the hilt of her sword, whilst her eyes scanned the wilderness with expert perception. It took him a second to realise she was still barefoot, and only just stopped himself wrinkling his nose.

 _What possesses someone to hunt darkspawn_ without boots _?_

“ _By the stone_ ,” she breathed, faltering beside him, and Alistair followed her gaze to where three soldiers were strung up like cured meat from a tree bridge. Every face was contorted with fear, and his gut wrenched uncomfortably.

_Poor bastards. They didn’t deserve that._

“Look there!” Jory called. “There’s movement on the path!”

Janna was gone in a blur, and she had already crouched at the source of the disturbance by the time Alistair realised that it was a wounded soldier.

He sprinted after her, in time to catch the end of the man’s sentence.

“… out of the ground. There were too many. Everyone is dead.”

“You’re safe now, it’s alright. We can get you back to camp. What’s your name, soldier?”

“A-a-aaron,” He stuttered, making any coherent noise clearly an intense effort.

“My name is Janna, I’m a Grey Warden. I’m here to help you, ok?” She was knelt beside the man, cradling his head in her lap. She’d removed his helmet and started stroking his hair, gently wiping the sweat from his pain-creased brow. She looked up at Alistair.

“Do you have any poultices? Any bandages?” Her voice was deathly calm, and her eyes flicked down to his abdomen. He took the hint and chanced a look, and then instantly wished he hadn’t. The soldier’s – Aaron’s – blood-soaked hands were cradling his stomach, and Alistair could see the glistening of his intestines underneath his shredded tunic. Beside him, Daveth gagged.

“Never mind bandages, you’re going to need a fucking funeral pyre.”

Jory glared down at him, and Daveth cowed uncharacteristically under his gaze, mumbling out an apology.

“I have both in my pack,” Alistair said, ignoring them both, delving into the bag and pulling them out. Janna wasn't even looking at him as she held her hand out for the items; her eyes were on Aaron’s face, keeping him distracted and stopping him panicking.

“When I give him the signal, Alistair here is going to put a poultice on your wound and then bandage you up, ok? I’ve got some draught here as well, which should help with the pain. It’s going to hurt to start with, but I need you to just hold on, alright?”

The soldier grimaced and nodded, breathing shakily.

Janna turned to Alistair. “Ready?”

He wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. “Ready.”

She lifted Aaron’s hands and gripped them tightly. “Deep breath in, Aaron,”

As he took in a shaky gasp of air, Alistair pushed the poultice deep into the wound. Aaron went grey and half screamed, half sobbed in agony. His knuckles were white under the blood, clutching Janna’s hands with a death grip. Alistair worked quickly, wrapping bandages around his torso and tying them off neatly.

Janna soothed him all the while, and once Alistair was finished, she propped him up gently and helped him take a swig of the healing draught. When he finished, he took a deep breath and slumped back into Janna’s arms. Fresh sweat was beading on his forehead, but his pallor was far healthier than it had been five minutes ago.

“I’m going to help him back to camp,” Janna said, the tone of her voice brooking no room for argument. “He’s stable for now, but if he encounters any more darkspawn, he’s done for.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Daveth muttered. “As if we didn’t have enough to be worried about. Should have just put the poor guy out of his misery.”

“We’ll come with you,” Alistair said, a little too loudly, deliberately speaking over Daveth and shooting him a warning look.

Janna smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

It took them about an hour to carry Aaron back to the gate. Janna propped him up the whole time, offering him generous swigs of healing draught and keeping his mind off the pain by chatting with him continuously. She asked him about his home, his family, his sweetheart. With each response, Alistair could see the fear dissipate from his shoulders. 

The guards on duty looked stunned when they opened the gates.

“Maker’s breath–Aaron? Aaron, what happened?”

“Squad got jumped.” He replied, grimly. “I would have been off to the Maker with them, if it hadn’t been for the Wardens.”

“Thank you,” said one of the guards, his voice thick with gratitude.

Janna nodded in recognition. “We’d best be getting back to our own mission now. I will come to see you later, Aaron.”

“Andraste watch over you, Janna.” Aaron said, wincing as he leant against one of the guards.

Janna turned back to the rolling hills of the wilds. “Thank you,” she said to the group, as the gates to camp closed behind them again. “I understand your reluctance to assist him, but I appreciate your help regardless.”

Daveth opened his mouth to retort something, but Jory punched his arm before he could get it out.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “It’s nice to see kindness isn’t completely abandoned in this desolate place.”

Janna turned back to them, and Alistair watched as an emotion he couldn’t quite place crossed her face, and then she smiled.

“Onwards, then?”

* * *

Alistair paced back and forth near the fire. The meeting seemed to be taking an age. He’d tried to lie in his tent and settle down for the night, but his heart was too heavy to sleep.

Two more were dead. Jory’s last words echoed through his ears. 

_There is no glory in this._

“The Light shall lead her safely,  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next,”

The words came almost subconsciously. Alistair knelt down by the fire and clasped his hands together, closing his eyes. He wasn’t one to pray much, not anymore, but he somehow always found himself reciting Transfigurations when there was cause for mourning. 

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,   
She should see fire and go towards Light.   
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,   
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker   
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Alistair finished the verse, its familiar lines settling over him like a blanket, comforting him, even if only for a moment. He stood, wiping away stray tears, and kicked a smouldering twig. He doubted he would ever get used to watching a joining. He wondered what they would tell Jory’s wife – _widow._

He could only be grateful that Janna made it through. He would never, _could_ never, celebrate the deaths of the others, but if there had to be only one survivor, he was glad it was her.

The moment they had got back from the Wilds, she had made a beeline for the Kennel Master and deposited a veritable mountain of flowers at his stunned feet; she had picked every single one she could find on their journey, and by the time they returned her pack was almost overflowing. After that, she marched to the infirmary to check on Aaron. The nurses and healers practically fell over themselves to thank her for her quick action. Alistair had watched her from a distance; once she had had a long talk with Aaron and left him to rest, she went round every other patient and helped the medical staff prepare ointments and poultices with the competence of someone who was definitely not new to the experience.

 _She is certainly a puzzle;_ he thought to himself. He had watched her cut down darkspawn with terrifying efficiency, and then find the body of a fallen soldier, recover his last will and testament, and insist on seeking out the hidden cache mentioned so that she could hopefully return it to his widow. Jory had been right. She was kind to her core, and that was very rare. War usually stripped kindness out of people before anything else. Janna seemed to be determined to hang onto hers until her last breath, probably to her own detriment. 

_And she did all of that with no fucking shoes on._

“Alistair!”

Her voice broke his train of thought, and he looked up to see her walking towards him, the rest of the attendees of the meeting going their separate ways behind her. He found himself smiling at her sudden appearance.

“All finished?”

Janna rolled her eyes. “Mercifully, yes. No thanks to Loghain or Cailan. We could have cut that time in half if they would stop clashing over literally everything. Now, I think I would like to settle down and have something to eat and then I am going to sleep for as long as possible. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.”

“ _That_ can be arranged.” Alistair smiled.

They walked together to the food tent in comfortable silence. Once Janna had wolfed down two and half helpings of stew and a good-sized mug of ale, she looked up at him softly.

“Thank you,” she said. “For earlier. With Aaron. You didn’t have to help, but you did.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Alistair replied, truthfully. “I’m just glad we could do something before it was too late.”

Janna reached out and took his hand, squeezing it appreciatively. “Still. I am grateful nonetheless. I will sleep a little easier tonight knowing we helped save his life. Especially after…” She tailed off, but Alistair knew she was referring to the joining.

As silence fell over the two of them, he bit his lip, and then seized his opportunity to both change the subject and answer his burning question.

“Look, I’m really sorry. But I can’t not ask. It’s been bothering me all day. And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he finished hurriedly, as Janna tensed up, probably preparing herself for something tasteless at best and racist at worst. “But… why on earth aren’t you wearing boots?”

Janna blinked at him, like it was taking time to actually process what he said. Then she looked under the bench, looked back up, repeated the action, and then groaned loudly and dropped her head into her arms.

“Sweet Ancestors, I cannot believe -”

“Fuck,” Alistair said, feeling laughter bubbling up from deep in his stomach. “You didn’t realise, did you?”

Janna shook her head, still face down. He could see the tips of her ears flushing deep red and desperately tried to stop the laughter from escaping, but it was no good; when Janna lifted her head with the look of someone who has never been more disappointed in themselves, he lost it.

“ _How in Andraste’s name can someone forget they’re not wearing shoes?_ ”

“I am _beyond_ humiliated.”

“I mean, I admit that makes me feel a little better,” said Alistair, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “At least I know you weren’t _deliberately_ wading around barefoot in darkspawn blood.”

“When I… _left_ Orzammar,” Janna said carefully, and the particular way she chose her words was not lost on Alistair, “my boots were damaged, and Duncan didn’t have any to hand that would fit a dwarf. When I got to Ostagar, everything happened so quickly, and I never had time to ask the quartermaster for a pair. Please don’t tell anyone. I have to maintain _some_ level of reputation. If I strike fear into people’s hearts because they think it was on purpose, then so be it.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me, now that you’ve put my mind at rest,” replied Alistair, raising an eyebrow but otherwise leaving the explanation well alone for now. “Thank you. I can rest easy knowing our newest initiate is not a _total_ barbarian.”

Janna chuckled into her ale, eyeing him impishly. “You never know. I might just creep up on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking around! The thing about Janna being barefoot came from my playthrough. When I was in the deep roads in the origin, I didn't have enough strength to equip the pair of boots I found, and then all the cut-scenes at Ostagar had her with no shoes which amused me to no end. It stuck.
> 
> Special thanks to Robin, Morgan, Sarah and Monte for putting up with my endless memes and constant yelling. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @wardencommanderaeducan and twitter @captain_tiny. come say hi!


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